Discord
by ianxfalcon
Summary: Asmodean is not one to accept and move on. He never did become the greatest composer of his Age. And if he didn't, no one else will, either. Not if he can do anything about it.


The room was dark and hot, in a way that the air was quivering just above the floor, hazy with smoke from the hearth, heavy with the heat and the smell of scented candles. All the windows in the room were covered with heavy curtains, closing out all but a few rays of sunlight.

Sometimes he just preferred the darkness. It gave him a touch of drama that he enjoyed, even though he knew it was ridiculous. He was softly plucking random notes on the harp, just as much to calm himself as to keep his fingers busy. Earlier, back in the time when he still used his old name, he would be on stage, crowds of people by his feet, surrounded by musicians with instruments playing his songs, and every note he took would be meaningful. Of course, that time was passed, and no need to dwell on the past. It was a long time ago, anyway.

He never would have fulfilled the early promise. Once, people had been sure that was what the Pattern held in store for him. Maybe, he mused to himself, that was why it was so hard for him to let it go. Because the Pattern had lied to him that way. Maybe that was the reason why he had chosen to cheat on it, in turn. That was even more ridiculous. The Pattern did not lie, because it was unable to think. It seemed people just misinterpreted it. Still, he had found the way to get away from it, to create his own destiny. Once the Great Lord had the world in His hand, there would be no more Pattern, and Asmodean would be free to become what he would have become, to get what was promised him all these years ago!

His fingers grew stiff, for a minute, and the note he struck created a discord. He forced them to relax. He had risen above those petty feelings, now.

With a sigh, he turned away from the harp, facing the Myrddraal standing in the shadows. It was barely visible, but he could feel its gaze. Years ago, facing one of the Eyeless would have struck fear in him. Not anymore. Not since he had become one of the Chosen. Nowadays, he was more afraid of the man creating them – if the Myrddraal could have been said actually having been created, instead of just existing, which was a more accurate description. Aginor was just like him, a little more than a man, but still at most a human being, and it was not really knowing that the man overmatched his strength in the One Power so much that he could easily chew him up and spit him out without breaking a sweat – Asmodean was not weak, and he was stronger than most, but he knew were he stood compared to the rest of the Chosen – it was not really that what scared him, but Aginor was just, well, evil. And he always seemed to balance on the edge of pure insanity. He had a tendency to stand in a corner, writing formulas in that little notebook of his, and muttering to himself. He was unpredictable, and Asmodean would have preferred not being on the same side as him. But he guessed being Chosen by the Shadow meant having to work with evil people, as that was part of the deal.

Hard to believe, now, that before the Collapse, no one had even known the meaning of that word, evil. It had been merely a remnant from the harder, darker times that had preceded this age. A lot of memories from those earlier ages were long gone, becoming less than myths and legends. Maybe Balthamel, who had a deep interest for lost cultures, might know something more, if he ever bothered to ask him. Not that it mattered, now. When the war was over, and the Great Lord was the winner, not even the memories from _this_ age would be important. They would not even become legends in the new world order. Unless the Great Lord let them be, obviously.

"Bring him in", he said to the Myrddraal. He thought it nodded before it disappeared. As if his words had been a cue, Asmodean could hear the prisoner scream.

He turned back to the harp while waiting. He started playing the first notes of a famous, rather simple love song that had been popular when he was younger. It did sound better on flute, as it was, but the harp was his favourite, and it was what he was most known for. That was what he wanted the prisoner to see.

The door at the end of the long room opened, letting in a breath of fresh air and light from the corridor, which was followed by two Myrddraal leading a chained man. He was chained around the neck, of course. The man was thrown down in front of him, whereupon the Myrddraal descended back into the shadows.

Apparently, this man was not as unaffected by their presence as Asmodean was. He glanced at them, shivering, his face almost hidden behind curtains of entangled hair. He was sweating already, and not only because of the heat in the room, certainly.

Asmodean cocked his head a little so that he could watch the man from a different angle, and said: "Good morrow to you, Evan Darean Sidamon."

The man's head jerked up. Terror filled his eyes as he saw him. At first he was even too terrified to talk – his mouth opening and closing without a sound coming out. At final last, he whispered:

"Nessosin…"

"As I am sure you know", Asmodean said, "I do not go by that name anymore. It should be wise of you to remember that."

Evan Darean looked away. His eyes darted back to where the Myrddraal stood. He was still more afraid of them, and dazed and shocked at that. Understandably so. Then he lifted his face again, raising the stumps where his hands used to be. They were carefully, if clumsily, bandaged, but blood had already jostled through.

"Why has this been done to me?" he asked, his voice close to hysteria. "Why?"

"A precaution", Asmodean said. He plucked a note on the harp, giving the man a smile. "Once, Evan Darean Sidamon, I was like you. I had a promising career ahead of me. I was about to get my own spot in the history books, to be remembered as one of the greatest composers of the Age. You know this, I am sure. You have been feeding on that same thing for the last ten years. What you may not know, is the feeling of failure. How it feels knowing that your best time has passed and you have left nothing behind, nothing good enough to be remembered for ages to come. How your audience, who used to cheer by every note coming from your hands, turns their back on you for someone younger. Someone like you. You don't know that feeling, am I right?"

Evan Darean did not seem compelled to answer. He stared at him, tears in his eyes and his arms still raised, as if reaching for the Creator.

"Well", Asmodean continued after a carefully planned pause, "now you will."

"I don't deserve this", Evan Darean whispered.

"Neither did I. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills." He could feel a cruel smile form on his lips. "Of course, I do not have to comply to the Wheel's will anymore."

Evan Darean started crying. He hanged his head, his stumps pressed against his chest. Asmodean watched, head cocked sideways again. They had all been crying at one point or another. All of them had asked him why, said that they did not deserved this; some of them had screamed about the Light and that he would be judged by the Creator at the time of his death.

But he would not die. He would live forever just below the Great Lord of the Dark. He had no illusions that he would ever become the leader of the Chosen. He did not want to, either. He had never been looking for power of that kind. All he had ever wanted was a justification. All he had ever wanted was to get what he had been promised by the Pattern and the Light but that it would never give him.

Now there was a war going on, and every day more and more people fell to the Shadow. The warriors of Light, while still powerful under the bloody Lord of Morning, were scattered. They would lose, eventually, just as Ishamael had said they would. And then they would die.

It was not of his willing. To be honest, it did not even matter to him if they lived or died. As long as he lived. As long as he was recognized. Once he had been called Joar Addam Nessosin, and sometimes he still though about himself that way, even though it was a foolish notion, but when the Wheel was broken and the Great Lord of the Dark ruled the new world, he would be Asmodean, and he would be free.

He smiled.

Then he raised his voice, to make sure the Myrddraal would hear him.

"Take young master Sidamon home", he said. "See that you will not harm him or his family in any way."

Evan Darean stared at him, face tearful and mouth open.

"Your family will care for you, certainly", Asmodean said. "Your wife. I trust you have a wife. And children?"

"Yes", the man whispered. "Two. Two little girls."

"They will be happy to have their father back, I am sure."

"Please don't hurt them."

"I'm not going to hurt them, or anyone", Asmodean said. "You will live. And when the Great Lord has the world in His grasp, you will serve Him. One way or another, you will all serve Him."

"Light, preserve me", Evan Darean whispered. The terror was back in his eyes, and he did not dare look at him, but he still whispered those words. The Myrddraal gave sound; cold, hateful hissings. Asmodean just tilted his head back and laughed.

When the man was lead from the room, Asmodean leaned back on his couch, again plucking notes on his harp. A song, written ten years ago by a great young composer who just recently had earned his third name. He could see Evan Darean's back tremble as he recognized it. It was truly a work of beauty, his music. So full of joy and brightness in a time this dark. It gave a feeling of satisfaction. Like flying just below the clouds in a sho-wing, watching the landscapes of eternal greenness, deep blue seas and fields covered with flowers. The lands as they were before the Collapse, which a lot of living humans today were far too young to even remember, the lands as they still were in some places far from Shayol Ghul and the ever-growing Blight. Evan Darean Sidamon's music had a touch of hope, of dreams for a better world.

Once upon a time, his own music had been very much the same. Beautiful and naïve in its dreamy state of purity. Now, what he managed to get out from the harp's strings was always dark, haunted, like funeral marches. The shrieks of men, women and children dying. The beat of marching feet on charred grounds. It was true to these times, indeed.

He struck a discord again. It sounded a lot like a man in horrible pain. He closed his eyes, with a small smile, and in the darkness he kept on playing.


End file.
